Eccentricities of an Exotic Soul

To live, is my dream, my one and only wish,

but alas, that dream the world won’t furnish.

I live, not as lively as I’d ever would;

and I’m starting to wonder if I ever could.

I just want to open my wings and fly to the sky,

escape this madhouse, the lonely, misfit I.

I want to be exotic, without being told how,

I’d want to be anything but me, even a crow.

I want to sing, and I want to dance, and I want to run

across the fields of golden wheat, and on and on …

I want to be, as no one has ever been.

I want to dream of a land so green …

I want to cry, with my head held high,

and over the winds to whisper a sigh.

Eccentricities of an exotic soul,

too low for a dream, too high for a goal.

My past in one hand, my future in the other,

and with neither should I ever again bother,

so long as I can foresee the present

and look at myself and foretell what I’ve spent.

I just hope that for this madness I’ve not overpaid

though too grievous were what aside I’ve laid …

Under the crescent moon to God I prayed,

and by all the rules I carefully played,

lest it all becomes nothing, all this that I did,

and all my belongings I lovingly hid,

in the darkest corner of all there is.

But the wicked winds would never cease.

And I discovered that I had to plow

ahead and ahead, even as a crow …

Oh … all those things I so wanted, all those dreams …

And I’ve finally become unstitched at the seems …

To live, is my dream, my one and only wish,

but alas, that dream the world won’t furnish.